Snapped
by xgoodbyexlovex
Summary: It wasn't a suicide...


**Author's Note: I _was_ working on something entirely different, but I was in an evil mood at 2 in the morning, and this came out. Hope you like it. Please review.**

**Dislaimer: Everything is Jonathon Larson's.**

* * *

She darted quickly through the streets, anxious to get back home out of the cold. Hunched against the winter wind and snow, she slipped in between other pedestrians and bicyclists. She let her feet guide her, her body knowing by heart every street and alleyway in the area.

She arrived at her apartment building. Her hands, frozen stiff, struggled a few moments with the key before finally being able to open the door to the loft. She stepped inside, noticing the lack of heat, but grateful nonetheless for the shelter from the wind. Brushing the snow from her hair, she took off her coat and pulled her scarf off, setting it on a nearby table. She walked further into the small main room, toward the kitchen, intent on making a hot cup of tea.

A hand grabbed her wrist, another grabbed her shoulder, yanking her back into a strong body.

"Where the fuck were you!" His voice hissed into her ear.

"What—?"

"Where _were you_!" He roared.

She gasped for breath as a hand snaked toward her throat. "Nowhere! I just went---"

"To help your mother?" His voice was back to a low, silky tone.

"Yes," she choked out, her hand coming up to clutch his as he gripped her throat harder. Her body screamed for oxygen, and stars danced in front of her eyes. The dizziness overcame her, and her knees buckled. Suddenly the hand around her neck was gone, moving to her other arm. He threw her across the room. She hit a chair next to the wall, her chest connecting with a corner.

"I'm tired of it," she heard him say in that same low, silky voice. "Of all your lies and shit. You didn't think I would find out the real reason of how you got infected?" He reached her, kneeled down next to where she lay on the floor, facing up toward the ceiling, struggling for breath. She focused on getting air into her lungs. Inhale—she winced as a pain shot through her chest—exhale.

"Look at me," he hissed into her ear, his warm breath caressing her skin.

She moved her head to stare up at him, her blue eyes meeting his green ones. They were on fire with anger and hate, but more emotions swirled around: love, sadness, hurt. She felt herself give into him, and tears began streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I don't care. I'm _tired of it_!" The last three words rose into a yell. "You ruined my _life_ with your shit! You fucked another guy, you got me infected, you _killed_ me, and you think two little words are gonna make a difference!"

"It was a mistake," she sobbed. "I shouldn't have done it, but I love you, I care about you, I would do _anything_ to take it back!"

He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Well, you can't, can you?"

She squeezed her eyes shut as a sob racked her body, more tears dripping from her eyes because of the pain in her chest. When she opened them, she saw him sitting on the floor next to her, his body shaking uncontrollably, with anger or sadness, she was afraid to know which.

She slowly used her arms to push herself up into a sitting position, her legs sprawled out in front of her. She fought against the pain, and leaned over to him, her arms encircling his broad shoulders, her hands stroking his back.

"I—we'll work through this. We'll help each other," she murmured soothingly.

She felt him lean into her comforting embrace, his head lowering to her shoulder—but then, as if something had snapped inside of him, he tore himself from her arms, and jumped up.

Standing over her, he said, "_We_ are going to do nothing." She watched, terrified, as he stalked toward the small kitchen. She heard the cabinets squeak open, rattle as he dug through them, then slam shut. With difficulty, she pushed herself up to stand next to the now-broken table. She stumbled over to the doorway of the kitchen, and watched him warily as he went through all of the cabinets in the small room until stopping at the last one. He took something out, and turned toward her. Her heart stopped when she saw what he had in his hand.

"No..." She whispered, backing away slowly. "Baby, please, no..."

"I _hate_ you. You deserve to die after what you've done to me." He stalked toward her, matching her step.

"No, no, please, oh God, no..." She began sobbing uncontrollably, gasping as her back met the doorway of the bathroom. She realized she was trapped into a corner.

"Baby, please, no, _no_!"

His feet never faltered as he continued toward her. Finally he stopped, two feet away from her, and raised his arm.

"_Roger_, _no_!" She screamed.

* * *

He sat for a long time afterward in the blood. A voice in the back of his mind kept yelling about how it was AIDS-infected, but he didn't care. He was beyond caring. He hated her. She had done this to him, had given him his death sentence. It was only fair that she have hers. He had snapped, and he didn't care about the consequences. Until his mind came back to him.

He awoke as if from a dream. He noticed the blood first. The red splashes all over the bathroom, outside in the main room. It covered him, his arms, his face, his clothes. It was everywhere.

Then he noticed what was in his hand. _Oh, God_, he thought. He stared at the knife, clutched in his right hand. _What happened?_

Then he noticed the body lying next to him.

He screamed.

* * *

Mark was halfway up the stairwell when he heard the scream. He raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, stumbling until he got to the loft. He pulled the door open—and froze.

He saw Roger, drenched in blood, sitting next to her. Her body.

"Roger!" He yelled, racing toward him, kneeling down next to his sobbing friend. "Holy shit..." He felt like throwing up. "What—what happened!"

* * *

Roger slowly became aware of Mark kneeling next to him, holding him as he cried. He heard Mark demanding answers, asking what had happened, what had she done. He felt the knife in his hand, and dropped it. Oh God, not what _she_ had done. What _he_ had done. He couldn't breathe. What the fuck had he done? _But Mark didn't know_, he realized. _He thought that she_...

"Suicide..." Roger whispered. "I came up h-here a-and I saw her like this, lying here, her b-body... April killed herself..."


End file.
